


Gold

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took Sherlock four years to realise that he loved this man. Three of those years were spent trying to find his way home. It only took one night to heal them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't realize that I shipped Johnlock, but I have the feeling that I might go down with this ship.

_"I'll fall in love, fall in love and hold nothing back from you."_

 

The word that most attributed to their relationship was certainly not easy, but that's exactly what it was. They were comfortable together, almost like an old married couple. It was easy to imagine they'd been married thirty, forty, fifty years. They lived in peaceful domesticity at home, and when they were out in the world, they were perfect extensions of each other. What they had was lovely and fine and very nearly perfect.

The trouble was that stupid big thing lodging itself in Sherlock's throat, stretching from the centre of his chest and outward. It wasn't always there, but it was a near thing. Being one of the most brilliant minds this world had ever seen, he could easily trace the cause of this disturbance and try to work around it. The disturbance? None other than Dr. John H. Watson, with his Browning and those stupid jumpers and the way he had to look up at Sherlock and everything. The mere _thought_ of him immediately brought about the obstruction, and it drove the detective dotty.

He knew the cause of the stupid thing, but he didn't know what it _was_. That's because he was often choked up with _feelings_  for the doctor. If anyone could be blind to their own feelings, it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. How was he to know that he was in love with the man?

Everyone could see it but the two idiots in question. Mrs Hudson was especially eager for something to happen.

And then came the drop. The one that changed everything, the one that resulted in a shiny black tombstone with his name on top and Jim Moriarty rotting underneath. Sherlock spent three years in hell, tearing himself apart as he decimated Moriarty's crime syndicate. He had dreams almost every night, and John featured prominently in each one. He had horrible nightmares where the fall had been for naught and the sniper had gotten him. Sherlock always woke with tears on those nights. He also dreamed of a future he was fighting so hard for, one with Christmas decorations and tiramisu for his birthday and arguments over whose turn it was to buy the milk.

Sherlock always woke crying on those nights as well.

Midway through the third year, he understood. He knew what the thing in his throat was, and the day he made the discovery, he nearly bled out from a knife wound. He sewed himself up with gritted teeth and a heart too full, pumping too erratically for his tastes. He healed well enough from the wound, but he still walked with the knowledge absolutely everywhere. It lived in his bones, in his muscles, in his lungs and fingers and knees. It drove him ever on, ever home, where the person he loved most in the world was waiting and grieving.

He wasn't sure how John would react when he came home, but that didn't bother him in the slightest.

He waited for John in 221B, a smile wavering on his face, hands trembling, seams barely managing to keep him together and in one piece. There was the blow to the face, the crying, the hug, and then.

The Kiss.

The Kiss was searing, though chaste. A tiny brush of lips against lips, somehow managing to rip along his skin like fire. It was like nothing, and it was _everything_. He brushed shaking fingers across John's cheek, and that seemed to trigger something in the doctor. Strong, steady hands tangled in black curls growing in, bodies pressed closely together but never closely enough, breaths held small words fraught with meaning.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

He wasn't sure who said it first, or who said it last, but one had said it first and the other had said the same, and the heat between them was a slow sunshine. It was delicate and lazy and fucking _magnificent_. It carried them to the bedroom just through the hall, the one that only Mycroft had been in in three years. That had been a week ago, to ensure that it was ready for his arrival. His _return_.

The pair left behind clothes like breadcrumbs, just in case the path proved maze-like and simply too dangerous. Was there such a thing?

Skin spread beneath hands like forgiveness, like salvation, like so much love. Heat, starting lazy and slow and quickly turning to something frantic and necessary. Teeth, soothed with tongues and lips and words. Nails, scraping lightly and leaving sparks. So. Much. John. It was better than he could ever have dreamed, his body sprawled and beautiful and golden and perfect and waiting for Sherlock.

Endearments, whispered and bitten off at the end, hung heavy in the air, floating on the heat rising from the bodies below. The light was slanted and gilded and tinged such a delicate shade of purple, like John's eyelids. They ended in eyelashes like threads of light, and they were Sherlock's to kiss. The aquamarine branches tattooed on the underside of John's wrists proved just as excellent for kissing.

The purple-gold light of dusk was replaced with blackened-gold street lights and pre-dawn as they lay on the tangle of sheets, spent and lazy and just _so damn happy_ , one pale finger writing chemical equations and sonatas on the beautiful gold skin of the other's chest.

It had taken Sherlock over four years to realise that he loved this man, and that he loved him entirely. It took three years of torture to find his way to the answer, and to find his way home. It only took one night to heal them both, leaving them whole and strong and _together_.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to write Sherlock stuff that has nothing to do with the reunion. Any ideas, guys?  
> Also, that lyric at the beginning is from "Hold Nothing Back" by Copeland, and is my inspiration.


End file.
